


Go Take Your Place In The Sun

by RakishAngle (afterdinnerminx)



Series: Behind the Scenes One Shots (Prompts by Tumblr Re-Watch Discussion) [3]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Anger, F/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterdinnerminx/pseuds/RakishAngle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some off-screen action at the end of Season 1, Episode 4...when Jack escorts Phryne home.  It is more serious/angsty that other fics in this series but so was Episode 4...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Constable Hugh Collins walked toward the press area outside the lobby of the bank. “Thank you” he mouthed to the Hon. Miss Phryne Fisher. For the moment, he was grateful to the lady detective who helped him earn, not one but two, commendations from his superior officer. Collins hadn’t registered that the excuse extended on his behalf about wrestling a weapon from the bank robber only to use it against said robber was a feeble one. His naivety, in general, kept him questioning the relative gullibility of his boss, or anyone else for that matter. This position was patiently remedied at a later (safer) time through a demonstration on how the angle of this particular projectile led to the unquestionable conclusion that the bullet disabling the bank robber could have only emanated from the lady detectives gun and not his own. 

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson perched disagreeably on counter inside the Church Street State Bank. The original tip-off led him to believe the robbery was to happen at a Baker Street location. He had hastily prepared a team of 7 trained and equipped officers to prevent, or at least manage, the incident. The only reason he had been able to arrive so soon is because Collins had thought to send an officer to his location advising of misunderstanding between father and daughter as it pertained to Latvian languages. He considered the premise of Miss Fisher’s intrusion into this part of his investigation as based on the apparent need for a translator. For a person who misunderstood her native language so little that she couldn’t perceive the difference between the words “church” and “baker”. 

“I’m not convinced my heroic constable deserves all the credit. But as I have forbidden him from doing your bidding, I may need to escort you home myself.” 

“Thank you.” Did he notice a moment of vulnerability? Even if he did, he felt the urge to eliminate these unbidden intrusions into official investigations held the greater requirement.

Jack led her out to the police car parked in front of the building. He held the passenger car door open for her. He could feel her eyes on him but he avoided hers. The car was silent for sake of the independent mental discussions the detectives were having with themselves. Further to that, the DI had already planned several obstructions should she try to initiate conversation. He told her…one fingernail. One fingernail in this business and he’d be the one hunting her down. He had already said they were past manners. He had no patience for ribbing. For misdirection. For scheaming. For empty justification. For obtuse reasoning. For flattery. He had no need to hear any of it.

He did learn something about her, though. For the second time in almost as many days, she tried to stay the flow of blood with just her hands. He didn’t see her do this but had heard about her stripped off shirt to rid herself of Yourka Rosen’s blood. He learned she had been a nurse. Now he knew she’d seen combat. 

Soldiers and nurses are two sets of warriors on two fronts, each with distinctive means for survival. Soldiers live or die amidst other troops in steady, solid hierarchies of order. Strategies disseminated through the ranks. Supplies, as they were, handed out. A soldier didn’t think of a nurse until he was grateful for his survival…or until he had fallen in love with one. Nurses, on the other hand, had no time for the fripperies of planning. Each solder caused death, each nurse raced against it. Hand-to-hand combat for the surge or stay of blood. Soldiers in rank, nurses however they can. In either case, the survivors claimed inventiveness as their most valuable weapon, given the speed in which all other resources had dwindled. 

He wasn’t kidding when he said that there would be occasions in which they would provide mutual benefit. He was equally serious about who in this relationship should be subordinate.

He parked up at Lansdowne and Albert Street. Without saying a word, without looking at her, he departed the police vehicle and walked into Fitzroy Gardens. She would follow sooner rather than later. He was already fed up with trying to speak with her on this account. They were not partners. They were not colleagues. She is not a member of the Victorian Constabulary. This has nothing to do with the sex in which she was born. It has to do with being untrained, unproven and – as experience is dictating – untrusted to do what is expected for greater good. His choice of career wasn’t an amusement. Nor was it just a job. Police officers in the late 1920’s still had little recognition and less compensation than they deserved, even if the strikes of 1923 brought improvements. Her invasions were disrespectful.

The scuffle of gravel approached at a faster rhythm than his own. He continued his path in willful ignorance of her company. He arrived at the Old Bandstand Pavilion. This will do, he thought. He walked in and chose to hold up the interior wall of the nearest square pillar, while waiting for her arrival.

She came to standing in front of him, one foot precisely angled, both hands on hips looking cross. “What do you think you are doing?”

“I would like to ask you the same thing, Miss Fisher.” He fastened his torso to the pillar behind him. The extra distance between her eyes and his own made it easier to direct his glance over her head or to her side should he need a redirection. Entry into her eyes was a tool used judiciously. “What do you think you are doing?” To make the point, he looked directly into her eyes. Briefly.

“Show me your hands,” her hands are stained with residue of Peter Smith’s blood. “Gloves.” She pulled woven beige gloves out of her pocket. Their surface streaked with the blood that had been on her hands. He took the gloves to inspect their interior. Clean. “You were wearing these when you made that shot.” He chanced another look into her eyes, his own lips contracted.

He returned her gloves.

There were civilians in that bank. Gunfire always begets more gunfire. She thought herself a hero. She’s lucky she didn’t get someone killed.

Jack made a show of taking his pistol out of his pants. He opened the chamber and removed the bullets, putting them in his coat pocket. “Your gun please, Miss Fisher.” He repeated the same activity on her gun with deliberation. Unregistered. Gaudy with gold plating. No less lethal than his. He counted 5 bullets before depositing them into his other pocket. Jack closed the chamber and returned the gun to her, handle first. He waited until her grip on it assured.

“Defend yourself, Miss Fisher.” He lunged at her, grabbing her hand with the gun and arcing it over her head. Her gun was back in his hand in less than a second, this movement punctuated by a click.

He handed it back to her. “Perhaps I caught you off guard. Shall we try again?” 

Phryne was incredulous. Just what did this man think he was playing at? She had just shot a man. Circumstances dictated that she do this foul thing to save…how many people at the bank? Just days ago, she felt death defeat her in taking a young man away. She had hoped that kind of experience to be long behind her. Less than an hour ago, she tried again to stop the flow of blood from a bullet wound. This time with a man who recently became her lover. One doesn’t walk away from those situations unmarked. She believed her escort home to be in kindness. Why the hell was he waging a battle?

She watched him pace in front of her. She wonders if she is not the only one he’s waging a battle against. He reaches out again to capture her gun hand. This time, she brings her other elbow down on his. But his grip is hard and both of their arms descend. She strikes at his shoulder and leans into him but she fails to get him off balance. Her arm is twisted behind her and once again, he is holding her gun…this time to her back.

Between the burn of twisted skin and the intention of the lesson, the latter is the larger irritant. 

“Two out of two, Miss Fisher. Perhaps, you’d like to try disarming me?” She takes back her gun and puts it in her bag. She will play the part he is asking her to. She has done worse but in the past, but it had left her scarred. 

“Do you know what you are asking me to do, Jack?”

“Nothing you aren’t doing already.”

His gun is wedged in the waistband of his trousers. Angry tears are blinked away before her vision is threatened. She stomps on his foot and reaches into his coat to find his pistol. He recovers before her arm is around his waist. In less than an instant, she finds the front of her body plastered to the column he was just leaning against. 

His whisper violates her ear. “If you don’t want to get someone killed, you need to be better than this.”

Then, as if he’d said nothing, as if he’d done nothing, he removes himself from the pavilion and begins his return to his car. She watched the back of him getting smaller in rhythmic strides. If he was looking for a provocation, it was going to happen. It was her turn now. He heard only the last step before he felt his knee buckle and his weight used against him to bring him down to the grass. 

Damn her. 

On his way down, braced with left arm, pulled her underneath him with his right, separating her knees with his own. She was immobilized but in a greater position of power now than she would have been if she dropped him.

She looked confused at finding herself on her back, more disconcerted with inability to move her upper body than in finding her legs wrapped around his hips. She knows judo. This shouldn’t surprise him. Everything she does causes her opponent to fight against himself. Jack prevented her from working her hands free by lacing his fingers through hers and applying pressure at both elbows and palms.

The pose is fraudulent but his response to it is not. He is angry with his body for betraying him not once but twice. The first betrayal is in his for landing them in this position. The second is for his obvious and instantaneous erection. 

He counted the layers protecting him from penetration. Four. Not enough to prevent from feeling the heat coming off of her. Not enough for either to pretend that he was anything but perfectly positioned to take her.

She flexed her hips into him, applying pressure to the most sensitive part of him. She made as if she were going to throw him off of her. His choice: to let her and send the signal that she will always maintain the upper hand – or – to persevere. What was more important: his dignity or his authority? He held his position.

She answered his challenge with her own – more physical, less philosophical. Subtle undulation. Rhythmic. Undeniable. Pleasure.

“Is this also your weapon, Miss Fisher?” His physical arousal was irritating. 

“It doesn’t have to be a weapon, inspector.” She is testing him. Does he wear his authority despicably? He may have started the battle but she will win the war. She hopes she hasn’t misread him. Think carefully, Jack. 

“Have you no decency?”

“I find that it is best to understand when decency is overrated.”

Enough. He released her hands and pressed into the grass to leverage himself up. He is looking beyond her now and toward the trek he intends to take back to the car. Any physical desire he may have felt is overpowered by adrenaline and frustration. He is disheartened by her apparent lack of concern for herself and for others. Someone is going to get hurt. 

No! He decides. Not enough!

His body pans one hundred eighty degrees to face her again. She has righted herself and delicately swishing off shards of grass from her white and beige outfit. His strides end where she stands. He puts his face right up into hers. 

“Miss Williams was kidnapped – and assaulted - today through no fault of her own. Did you notice that? Do you not have the decency to admit the affects of your involvement? What kind of person are you?”

The unconscious waver in the focus of her eyes conveys to him that she now understands he blames her. Not for the Latvians. Not for the bank. But for Dot. Good. Whether or not she understands, at least she has heard him.

“This is my job, Miss Fisher. People rely on me. Stop interfering.” He storms back to the car with his overcoat flapping behind him.

The posture of violence he has assumed against this woman has sickened him. He is berating himself for his irresponsible and cruel behavior. He is fighting himself over a compulsion to apologize.

He is waiting for her in the car. He looks straight ahead, nostrils flaring. 

She gets into the car beside him, smarting from that entire interaction. She crosses her arms at her elbows and tilts her body toward the car door.

The remaining drive to her house takes less than 5 minutes. He turned off the engine and engaged the handbrake. He still can’t look at her.

He removes the 5 bullets he had been holding in his overcoat pocket. She finally responds to his earlier comment “you aren’t as good at this as you need to be”.

“I am better at this than most of your Constables.” 

“My constables don’t go into dangerous situations without back up. They don’t provoke criminals. They don’t engage in illegal acts. My constables have me as well as each other. The operation today allowed for the instant dispatch of 7 men, all equipped, all trained to handle an emergency. You seem quite happy to risk life, limb and propriety for the sake of whatever you are trying to achieve here. But don’t you risk the lives of others and don’t you dare risk the lives of my men.”

Again, he took the chance to look at her. “Do you even realize how you depend on me for assistance whenever you get in over your head? Do you have no idea how much more dangerous things are when you get involved?”

That stung. 

He easily got her firearm away. 

She was shaken when Dot was kidnapped. She could not yet comprehend her assault.

“Inspector, has it not yet occurred to you that despite your hasty but careful planning and plotting, you were at the wrong bank! That was not my fault. You weren’t there.”

“They had a Browning Automatic. You know the damage that it can do. Nevertheless, you went in with my officer - a junior officer – who had no firearm and a Latvian communist. While you may have appreciated some of his skills, you had no way of understanding how he might respond under fire. Two people were shot today under your supervision, not mine.”

He gripped the steering wheel tightly and kept his gaze long across the street. Miss Fisher, conversely, got out of the car. It took a great deal of restraint to keep from slamming it shut. Instead, she pressed the car door back toward him gently until she heard the latch engage. She leaned in with her fingers still over the doorframe to give him one last thing to think about.

“Well, Jack. I suppose I should thank you for this telling and insightful lesson you have constructed for my benefit. Just to make sure I understand the point you are making. Crime happens. Your men protect the city. You protect your men. As you say, that makes many people dependent upon you for their safety and well-being, Inspector. Despite the fact you didn’t say aloud, I’m certain you have an answer for this as well.” 

She has already walked back up the path, without looking back at him. She has opened the door and left him to think about her last comment, which rings within his ears.

“Who protects _you_ , Inspector?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day.

“Miss Fisher.” He grimaced at her from his chair behind his desk. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow. Should I expect an uptick in your rate of visitation or is there a specific reason you are here?” Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was not pleased to see her, per se, but did want to speak with her after their … discussion … yesterday.

“I have a peace offering, Jack. I have decided to extend an olive branch since our suspect from yesterday escaped.” She is referring to the headline story that Peter Smith, Latvian anarchist rebel and recent lover, mysteriously escaped from the hospital after being treated for a gunshot wound.

“Our suspect, again? I had hoped that we were starting to come to an understanding, Miss Fisher.”

“Well, about that…” she started speaking before she knew what she wanted to tell him. 

_“What kind of person are you?”_ The question gripped her. At least 50 answers came to mind. None came in the moment he asked, which was irritating. Why, I’m clever, of course. Heroic. Altruistic. Can’t you see this, Inspector? Decisive. Capable (despite your demonstration). I am the kind of person you should want at your side for your most challenging investigations. Her peace offering was an invention to see him. She suspected he had little interest in the conclusion of her recently resolved domestic matter. Still, she felt she had something to prove.

Ah, and then there was _that_. She may have misinterpreted his motives. Just a tad. He claimed she was drawn to danger like a moth to a flame. Is that how she found herself here?

“It is beneficial that you dropped by, Miss Fisher. I was hoping to have a word about yesterday.” He shuffled through papers on his desk as if he were going to bring up a fact or piece of evidence that needed recording for future use. 

Jack’s reaction to her at the garden caught him off guard. It was totally inappropriate. The private thoughts he had been allowing himself of late had penetrated (for lack of a better word) actual life. He intended on regaining control of his urges and hoped that she would be willing to ignore physical indicators suggesting otherwise.

The DI continued. “The last comment you made yesterday. It was of a professional nature, was it not?” His eyes crept up to look at her. His effort at looking impassive is failing him. He lowers his eyes back to his paperwork. 

Phryne sat up a bit straighter and blinked quickly “Of course!” This was said with the same alacrity as her equally fallacious response: “I was just being polite.”

Her response prompted…what? Happiness. The inspector shut down his smile and started a man-to-man chat with himself: Jack – stop. This is ludicrous. You know what she’s like. You’ll be chewed up and spit out. Get yourself together, man. Professional, remember? Even if she might indicate otherwise. 

In spite of this summons, he noticed himself walking over to the other side of his desk. He stood in front of the other chair he had for visitors. He backed up to lean on his desk casually. He loosely crossed his arms and looked down at her.

Phryne stood up, turned around and mirrored his pose. The two detectives now leaning against his desk looking toward the signage on his door: “Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.”

“Then, in a professional context, Miss Fisher…you should know that there are people and protections in place to support me. And, in case you haven’t noticed, I have done well for myself.”

She noticed. Why did he think she was in his office and no one else’s?

He continued. “I hope you weren’t implying yesterday that I might require your protection to do my job.”

Her lips twitched into something more satisfied. She snuck a sideways glance. “I wouldn’t dare to suggest. But … isn’t it nice to have a secret weapon, Jack?”

Jack bend at his waist toward her to respond in a lower register “only if it doesn’t explode, Miss Fisher.”

She tilted her head to cast an admiring glance over her shoulder, fascinated with the stripe of warmth alighting the right side of her body. It will take her several hours to recognize that this superseded yesterday’s intimacy.

“You said you had a peace offering?”

“There might be something interesting happening at the docks around 2pm today.”

“Will I need back-up?”

She shook her head. “The surprise I have in mind is more of the brown paper and string variety.” 

He allowed himself a real smile now. “Then, I look forward to it, Miss Fisher.”

She grabbed her bag and left his office.


End file.
